


Simple Math

by athena_crikey



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Gen, Whump, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7499529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Goku at death's door and Hakkai unable to heal him, Sanzo is forced to make a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Math

**Author's Note:**

> The Seiten sutra info comes from one of the Minekura interviews... Saiyubito, perhaps?

Goku takes a gasping breath and chokes. Hurt isn’t the right word for it. Hurt is like calling white-hot metal lukewarm. The pain in his chest is all broken glass and ragged saw teeth, slicing deeper and deeper with each breath – and no breath is deep enough, because he feels like he’s drowning.

That his eyes are open he knows only from the brightness above, a faint far-off blue. His ears are full of sound but he can’t seem to hear it properly, to resolve it into words. Like listening to the sea in a shell, it’s just white noise. 

Above him, the pale stretch of blue is interrupted. Bright, shining yellow like spun gold hovers above him. The face below it is in shadow, but he doesn’t need to see it to know who it is. 

“S-Sanzo… s’all sharp…”

A louder humming in his ears, like Jeep’s engine revving. “Sanzo? …C-can’t…”

A firm hand presses down on his mouth, fingers wrapping around under his jaw and holding it closed. 

Then there’s a jerk and a sensation like a hundred scissors driving down into his chest. Back bucking, Goku writhes for a brief second before falling into darkness.

\----------------------------------------------------------

They carry him into town on a make-shift stretcher of blankets and branches, Jeep’s shocks too worn and the suspension too stiff in the first place to transport him by car. Hakkai runs ahead to book a hotel room and find a doctor, while Sanzo and Gojyo walk down the main street slow as a funeral procession. They’ve already had to stop three times in the ten miles into town for Hakkai to repair the new damage in Goku’s chest, the damage the simple act of living is wreaking on him. 

The landlord hovers over them while they carry the stretcher up the stairs in careful toddler’s steps, Gojyo at the tail end lifting it almost to shoulder-height to keep it level while Sanzo’s wrists are even with his hips. The room’s a large one with two beds; they lay their burden down on the closer of the two with the caution of men carrying gunpowder. And then there is nothing to do but wait for Hakkai to arrive with the doctor.

The news isn’t good.

The doctor is a younger man, but his hair is already greying at the roots and his face is prematurely lined. These aren’t peaceful times, and doctors see the worst of everything. Despite that, he takes one look at the uneven, deep blue and purple mess that is Goku’s chest, and pales. Looks up at them with disbelieving eyes. When he meets with nothing but hard expectation, he stands and steps over into the corner to be away from his patient. Speaks in a low, simplistic voice as if to break through shock or stupidity.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do – there’s nothing anyone could. It’s just a matter of time now.”

“That’s not acceptable,” says Sanzo, arms crossed and face set in stone. Behind them, Goku coughs wetly and Hakkai returns to his side, kneeling with his back to the group. 

“There’s nothing to be done. His injuries are too severe; there’s just no treatment.”

“Find one.” Sanzo’s eyes don’t falter, stare him down bright and piercing as stars. Behind him, Gojyo shifts his weight uncomfortably, but says nothing. The doctor frowns, and takes off the kid gloves. 

“That boy should be dead already. His ribs are crushed; his lungs must be ripped to shreds, and even if not the internal bleeding will compress them until he suffocates – if he doesn’t simply bleed to death first. There’s no way to deal with those injuries – you can’t set ribs that are shattered, and you can’t stop that kind of bleeding. I’m sorry, but he won’t live out the hour.”

“Then you can go,” says Sanzo, and turns away. Walks over to the window, and stares out at the street below. Gojyo clenches his jaw, and steps back to Hakkai’s side.

The doctor bows his head, and leaves.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Hakkai forbids their smoking in the room, so they take turns in the hallway while the green-eyed man sits in a chair by Goku’s bedside and listens to the wetness of his breathing with a mannequin’s expressionless face. 

Goku slips in and out of consciousness but rarely approaches lucidity. He calls for Sanzo when he has the breath to speak, and moans wordlessly when he doesn’t. Although his voice is too soft to be heard across the room, never mind through a wall, if the priest is in the hall when Goku wakes he unfailingly returns. Steps back in with a hastily ground-out cigarette between his fingers and the glower that’s the closest he can currently come to neutrality. And unfailingly, when Sanzo places a light hand on the boy’s head, he calms for a moment.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Goku feels like he’s fighting to keep his head above the water. Fighting to suck in air rather than water. But the liquid’s thick and warm and salty in his mouth, a sharp metallic taste that he knows too well to mistake for water for more than an instant. Blood.

He tries to roll over to cough, and hands on his shoulders stop him. They pin him flat on his back with gentle firmness, hold him while the attempt at movement drives knives into his lungs and causes him to gasp. He doesn’t have the strength to fight. He doesn’t have the strength to protest. 

He hardly has the strength to breathe. 

Goku forces his eyes open, and finds the world is one big brownish blur. “San-zo?”

A warm weight on his head, familiar fingers in his hair, a presence he will always recognize. Goku tries to focus his eyes, can’t. 

“Don’t talk, stupid monkey,” says Sanzo’s voice; he sounds like he’s been chain smoking for hours. 

“Sanzo…”

“Shut up,” barks Sanzo roughly. Further away, a softer voice protests, “Sanzo.”

His chest is full of razors, of metal shards and jagged nails. He struggles to pull air in past them; they just cut further in. 

He knows this feeling. Knows the horrible, twisting urge to arch his back into the pain and just cough until he shreds his lungs. Knows the cold, cramping sensation running up his spine. He felt them before, slumping to his knees in an alleyway with five bullets in his back and Sanzo holding him tight while the world faded away. 

“Sanzo… think… think ‘m dyin’.” He hears the surprise in his own voice, and has no idea how it got there. 

“No you’re damn well not,” snarls the priest. Takes his chin in a cool hand and turns his head so that he’s staring straight at the pale blur that is Sanzo. “You hear me, Goku? You’re not fucking getting out of this so easily. Don’t you dare…”

Behind him someone’s murmuring, the sound like wind in thick trees. Goku sucks in a breath, and finds himself choking. Tries to cough, and finds nothing but jagged, tearing pain. He twists against it, and the world fades out again.

\-------------------------------------------------------

“The hell d’you think you’re doing?” Gojyo drags the priest away and slams him into the wall, face hot with rage. Sanzo breaks his grip at the wrists and shoves him away, steps back over to Hakkai. The healer is leaning over the once-again unconscious boy with _ki_ pooled under his hands.

“You will save him,” orders Sanzo, with the same steel-hard certainty that he requires of any venture he is involved in. The word _maybe_ has no meaning for Genjyo Sanzo, isn’t allowed to exist around him. That attitude pisses Gojyo the hell off at the best of the times. Right now, it makes him want to punch the bastard in the mouth.

Hakkai doesn’t reply, sweat beading along his hairline and at the back of his neck. His hands are starting to tremble. He’s been healing Goku on and off for hours now. 

“Fucking with the guy trying his best to save the kid’s life is pretty damn low, even for you,” spits Gojyo. Sanzo ignores him. On the bed, Goku lies still now. His mouth and jaw are wet with blood, smeared bright and red on his pale skin. Gojyo fists his hands.

Hakkai finishes, the pale firefly-green glow of his _ki_ fading to nothing. His face, when he turns, is worn and haggard.

“You need to be realistic,” he says flatly, staring up at Sanzo, mouth set in an ugly thin line. “I’m not making any headway here. There is none to be made. There is no way to heal bones as fragmented as his are – all I can do his heal the damage they cause in his chest when he breathes. I can keep him alive, until I pass out. And then he will die.” He says it with calm deliberativeness, dropping the words like stones on a marble floor. Gojyo can feel the weight of their impact: it’s like a bullet to the chest. 

There’s one single instant of stillness, world frozen in a cold tableau. And then Sanzo has hauled Hakkai to his feet by the collar of his shirt, hands fisted so tight that his ligaments stand out like hills and his knuckles mountains under his pale skin. Hakkai doesn’t blink. Just looks Sanzo coldly in the eye from beneath low brows. 

“Put him _down_ –” begins Gojyo, stepping forward to grab Sanzo’s shoulder. Hakkai’s eyes snap quick as a flare to stare him down; Gojyo staggers to a stop. Sanzo snarls, and drops him.

“The hell do you suggest, then? We wring our hands and quit?”

“I’m doing everything I can,” says Hakkai, hard as granite. “I still can’t save his life.”

Gojyo swallows and tastes bile. He clears his throat, which just makes it burn more. “What about – his limiter,” he stammers, feels the attention of the other two men slam into him like twin buses. 

“You have a brain; use it,” says Sanzo, lip curled in disgust. Gojyo bristles, but Hakkai cuts in before he can tear into the priest.

“We would never stop him this time. If I take off my limiters again, I’m afraid I’ll lose myself – and even last time you and I weren’t strong enough alone. He’s faster every time. You and Sanzo alone…”

_We could never do it_. Logistically, Gojyo knows that’s true. It took him, Hakkai, Gat _and_ a goddamn great thunderstorm to take down the Seiten Taisei last time, and even then they only barely managed it. 

But now they have Sanzo. And Sanzo, against all odds, seems inherently to be a match for the Seiten Taisei. Even drugged, beaten and poisoned the priest stopped him when neither they nor Kougaiji and Dokugaku could. It seems to be just another facet of their unspoken, unvoiced tie. Goku always knows when Sanzo is in trouble, and Sanzo always knows how to get his monkey out of it. 

Gojyo still believes that, even now. But he also knows that’s the denial speaking. 

Goku is dying, and this time they can’t save him. Can’t do anything but stand by and watch while he chokes to death in front of them. 

On the bed, Goku twitches and moans. Hakkai sighs, and slumps back into his chair. Sanzo’s head swivels like a weathercock. Gojyo watches while he stares, face hard. Then the priest turns and strides towards the door in what is very nearly a run.

Gojyo catches him before he makes it to the hall, grabs his elbow and spins him around.

“Don’t you dare run out on him again, you bastard,” hisses Gojyo, staring into Sanzo’s eyes. His pupils are contracted so far that the purple of his eyes is startlingly apparent, vivid as irises on a clear day.

Sanzo knocks away his hand. “Don’t make a fool of yourself,” he says, and opens the door.

“Where the hell’re you going?”

“That’s my business.”

\-------------------------------------------------

Outside dusk is falling. They’re in the foothills now, and there’s a very definite temperature drop as soon as the sun disappears behind the mountains. Sanzo strides through town, ignoring the stares and occasional hails of the locals, and out the opposite side from their point of arrival. Here on the dirt path running through a dense wood, the light is dim and the shadows thick. He doesn’t need to see to sense the youkai watching him, though. He keeps walking, hand hidden away in his long sleeve holding his revolver in a firm grip. 

They charge him about ten minutes out from town, dropping from the trees and rushing out from the bushes. Sanzo shoots with none of his usual lazy indifference; his movements now are sharp and snake-quick. He snaps around cleanly as a martial artist, dropping five youkai before they’ve realised he has a gun. He has the bullets ready between his fingers, reloads in the time it takes them to recover and recognize that he’s vulnerable, and takes out five more in a further series of harsh whirl-wind movements. 

Which leaves one final youkai sitting on his ass, sword some feet from his hand and eyes wide with terror. Sanzo deliberately slots a final bullet into the chamber and clicks it shut. Strides over and knees down smooth as a diving hawk, and grabs the youkai by the front of his shirt. Slams the muzzle of his gun straight into the cowering youkai’s forehead, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Are you one of Kougaiji’s lackeys?”

The youkai’s jaw works convulsively, eyes nearly crossing to stare at the revolver. Sanzo twists it deeper into the purple-toned skin.

“Do you work for Kougaiji?” he repeats. “I’ll give you one hint: the answer I’m looking for is yes.”

“Y-yes,” stammers the youkai, trying to lean away from him with absolutely no success.

“You have some way of communicating with him? Don’t tell me you all just hang around roads waiting in the vague hopes we might pass by. Someone’s tipping you off to our location.”

“There’s a r-radio. We get c-calls.”

“You can contact him?”

“Y-yes,” admits the youkai, pupils tiny pinpricks in his terrified eyes.

“Then you call him. You tell him I want to meet him here by midnight. Tell him I want to make a deal. Got it?”

The youkai nods frantically, movement making the gun bob up and down. Sanzo leans in close, eyes sharp as swords, and whispers: “Good.” Sanzo cocks the gun; the youkai’s eyes roll in his head. “If he’s _not_ here by midnight, I will hunt you down and put this bullet in your brain. Believe me?”

The youkai nods again, shivering frenetically. 

“Then you’d better run.” He stands and steps back, suddenly all calm and relaxation. The youkai scrambles to his feet, panting for breath, and dashes away into the forest. Sanzo uncocks his gun, turns, and walks back to town.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Gojyo scours most of the bars in town before he finds Sanzo, sitting at the counter of a back-alley ramshackle speakeasy drinking a whisky – almost certainly not his first. Gojyo strides straight up to him and takes the whisky out of his hand. Downs it in one burning swallow and slams it back on the bar with a heavy thunk. 

“So what, you’re gonna bury your head in the sand and pretend this isn’t happening? You’re gonna leave Hakkai up there alone to deal with it? You’re gonna abandon the monkey while he’s lying there calling your name?”

Sanzo doesn’t turn, just raises a hand for the barman. Another whisky is poured and delivered. 

“Look at me, you fucking shitty priest!” Gojyo makes to grab the second whisky; Sanzo smacks his hand away without looking and drinks it. 

“Use your head,” says Sanzo, tapping a cigarette from hid pack and lighting it. “What does it matter where I sit? Whatever happens happens, no matter where I am.” He takes a long drag.

Gojyo is momentarily stunned into speechlessness. “The hell is wrong with you?” he manages at last. “This isn’t about logic. Isn’t about some goddamn principles or philosophies. This isn’t something you can reduce to anything other than what it is: he’s calling for you and _you should be there_.”

“He’s not,” answers Sanzo, blowing out a mouthful of smoke. 

“What?” asks Gojyo, nonplussed.

“Right now, he’s not,” repeats Sanzo as if detailing an obvious fact.

“Hah?”

Sanzo raises his hand again; another whisky arrives. He shoves it over in front of Gojyo with the back of his hand. “You’re not drunk enough.”

“This isn’t the time to be drinking!”

“You can think of a better one?”

Gojyo slumps down onto the stool beside Sanzo. Something’s very off, but he can’t place it. By now, the two of them should be rolling on the floor trying to throttle each other. He came in here to drag the priest back to the inn, and if not that at least to get in a couple good blows. But Sanzo’s not on the defensive, and he’s not taking offense. He’s behaving, in fact, like nothing at all is wrong.

The priest has a lot of issues and a lot of screwed up ways of dealing with them, but denial isn’t one of them. Gojyo looks at him suspiciously, really looks. And sees nothing but blandness and boredom. Like Sanzo’s waiting on something. Whatever it is, it’s sure as hell not the same thing he and Hakkai are dreading. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, still watching Sanzo.

“Drinking.”

Gojyo’s eyebrow twitches. “You know, you really are a bastard,” he says. Pulls out a cig of his own and lights it.

“So I hear,” drawls the priest. Finishes his whisky, and signs for another.

“How many of those have you had?”

Sanzo shrugs. “How’s Hakkai?”

“How d’you think? Exhausted. He’s not sure he can keep it up until morning.”

Sanzo glances at the clock behind the bar. Gojyo follows his glance; it’s 11. Eight more hours. Maybe. And they’re sitting here in a bar drinking the time away.

He gulps down the rest of his whisky. “Fuck, we’re a pair of pathetic sons of bitches.” Gojyo wipes a hand over his eyes.

“Don’t include me in your incompetency,” replies Sanzo, finishing his own whisky. He pulls something thin out of his sleeve and tosses it to Gojyo as he stands; Gojyo catches it automatically. The Three Aspects’ gold card.

“Sanzo?”

“Pay the bill.” The priest heads for the door, walking a straight line effortlessly. 

“The hell’re you going now? Sanzo?” 

By the time Gojyo’s paid the bill – goddamn cards take forever to run through – and dashed outside into the cold night air, the alley is empty. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Sanzo sits cross-legged with his back against a thick elm tree, hands resting on his knees and eyes closed. His gun is in his left hand, but it’s uncocked and held in a loose grip. That in and of itself is insignificant – he can cock and fire it in considerably less than a second – but it’s the gesture that’s important.

Kougaiji is much better than most of his race at disguising his _youki_ , but Sanzo still feels him approaching before he comes within range of sight or hearing; he has Gojyo’s brother with him. The two youkai circle to approach him face on, somewhere between cautious and wary. 

Sanzo opens his eyes. In the low light and with the trees he can’t see anything but the occasional flicker of movement. He lights a match, and holds it out to the wick of the lantern sitting next to him. The flame takes, and illuminates him and the two youkai in a flickering buttery glow.

“I was told you wanted to make a deal?” says Kougaiji, sounding as close to uncertain as his princely bearing allows. 

“You have the Seiten sutra,” says Sanzo in an utterly neutral voice, watching for the flash of confirmation. He doesn’t see it in Kougaiji’s face, but his follower is much less well-trained in negotiation, and the affirmation practically rolls across his features.

“I need it,” he continues. “Temporarily. I’m willing to offer the Maten sutra as collateral.” He reaches up and pulls it from his shoulders; recognizing its master’s will, the sutra rolls itself into a neat scroll in his hand. Even with the whisky deadening his nerves, it’s still all he can do to keep the distaste from showing on his face. 

Kougaiji frowns. “You want to _borrow_ the Seiten sutra?” he asks, staring at Sanzo’s hand.

“For an hour,” confirms Sanzo.

“ _Why?_ ”

“I need it.”

“And you think I’ll just hand it over to you,” says Kougaiji, voice flat.

“With collateral.” Sanzo raises the sutra in his hand without releasing Kougaiji from his level gaze.

“You want to _swap sutras?_ ” repeats Kougaiji, doing nothing to disguise his growing scepticism.

Sanzo frowns, distaste overwhelming him. “Yes.” The word tastes bitter, of bile and ashes. 

“You’re going to need to give me a significantly better reason than ‘because I need it.’” The youkai prince crosses his arms. Behind him, Dokugakuji’s expression says very plainly that he thinks Sanzo has cracked. But he’s irrelevant, and Sanzo ignores him. Crosses his own arms, and stares back with flinty eyes.

“Because Goku’s dying,” he says. The grittiness of the drinks and cigarettes obliterates any underlying unevenness. 

Shock runs across both youkai’s faces, quick as electricity. “Of what?” demands Kougaiji, stepping forward. 

“Not your pathetic rabble,” replies Sanzo instantly. And then, when the youkai doesn’t back down, adds more grudgingly, “A cave-in.” Stupid, idiot, _brainless_ monkey, chasing the rabbit he wanted for lunch right into an utterly decrepit cave. When he recovers, Sanzo’ll beat the shit out of him for it. He’s already resolved it, and Sanzo doesn’t break resolutions.

“What about your healer? Cho Hakkai?” asks Dokugakiji. Sanzo’s attention snaps back to the present, scowl deepening. 

“There’s no setting shattered ribs. And no healing what moves every two seconds.” Not with anything devised by humans or youkai, at least. Sanzo stands, both youkai stiffening. At his feet, the lantern flickers. He holds out the sutra, unnaturally heavy for its appearance. “I need the Seiten sutra,” he repeats flatly. 

Kougaiji stares at it with bright eyes. “If I give it to you, you’ll use it to save Goku’s life. Despite previous circumstances, we are enemies. Helping to save his life would be an act of treachery.”

“If you chose,” grits out Sanzo, “you could renege on the deal and keep the Manten sutra. The Seiten sutra carries no offensive capabilities; you would significantly weaken my hand. And you would have the opportunity to study a new sutra. You’ve had the Seiten sutra for years already; must’ve sucked its secrets dry.”

“One hour,” muses Kougaiji.

Dokugakuji steps forward to hiss in his ear, expression disapproving. Kougaiji listens, and then looks back to Sanzo.

“Goku is really dying?”

“Yes,” says Sanzo, voice full of gravel. The sutra is heavy in his hand; his shoulders feel unnaturally light. 

“How long?”

“Seven hours at the most.”

“It will take us six to get the sutra and come back,” says Kougaiji. Dokugakuji sighs in resignation. 

“And your treachery?” asks Sanzo, probing the youkai’s trustworthiness, his intention to keep his promises. 

Kougaiji stares at him with dark eyes. When he speaks, its with the slow thoughtfulness that suggests he’s thinking out his answer as he speaks. “Goku helped me when it served no purpose of his. You all showed mercy, when it wasn’t to your benefit. Those are outstanding debts, and debts must be repaid.”

There’s a heartbeat’s pause, all three standing still. And then:

“Then repay them,” says Sanzo harshly. Kougaiji nods once and disappears in a blur of motion, followed immediately by Dokugakuji.

Sanzo sits down stiffly. Pulls out his pack of cigarettes, knocks one free, and lights it. 

Closes his eyes, and listens to his monkey calling for him.

\----------------------------------------------------------

The sky is just beginning to lighten when the youkai return, this time landing their flying dragons right on the path in front of Sanzo. He stands immediately, bones creaking, and is met by Kougaiji jumping down with a rolled sutra in his hand. Sanzo only has to look at it for a second to know it’s the other half of his inheritance, the sutra that should by all rights be his. The sutra his master was killed for. 

He hands out the other, the one his master died for, with a steady arm. Kougaiji does the same, and each taking the other with his free hand. 

“One hour,” says the youkai. 

But Sanzo’s already running in the opposite direction.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Goku stopped calling for him hours ago, but he’s still alive. Sanzo knows it, just as he knows his own heart is still beating: he can feel it tight and sure in his chest. 

He sprints through the pre-dawn quiet, bangs into the inn and runs up the stairs. Slams into their room, adrenaline sharp and icy cold in his veins. 

Hakkai and Gojyo both swivel as he enters. Hakkai looks one inch away from collapse, skin drawn and nearly translucent, eyes unfocused, posture utterly defeated. Gojyo is somewhere between sorrowful and furious. He stands at Sanzo’s entrance, eyes narrowing in sheer rage.

“You fucking –” he begins; Sanzo pays him absolutely no attention. Strides right past him and drops to his knees beside Goku’s bed. In it, the boy’s lying with his eyes closed as before. His face is paler, lips red with blood and clothes and sheets spattered with it. Sanzo grits his teeth. Goku’s tottering on the edge of his grave, and Hakkai’s about to pass out. 

“Gojyo,” he says, sword-sharp. The red-head falls into a sullen silence and stares at him. “When I’m done, you take this sutra into the woods on the west side of town. Kougaiji’s waiting about a mile down the road. You trade it for the one he has. Understand?”

Gojyo stares at him as if he’s gone crazy, but he has no more time for the idiot. He unties the elaborate tassels with a simple tug of his fingers, and unrolls the sutra in one straight movement. There is no time to appreciate it, no time to treasure the fact that he finally holds the sutra that is rightfully his in his hands. There is no point anyway: in an hour, he will have lost it again. Better not to consider it at all.

Sanzo looks down on the scroll with absolute concentration, reads the lines of characters with intense focus. The sutras aren’t long; it doesn’t take more than a minute and he already knows the basis of the contents in any case. Finished, he allows it to shape itself to fit his needs; it flows into the U shape. He drapes it over his shoulders, and turns to Hakkai. The man’s hands are resting directly on Goku’s chest now, a slight green glow framing his fingers. The very last of his reserves, being spent constantly just to keep Goku’s blood still in his veins and out of his lungs. 

“Hakkai, stop,” he says.

“Sanzo, you can’t – if I stop –”

“Stop,” he repeats, reaching out to push Hakkai’s hands away. 

“He’ll die,” says Hakkai thickly, focusing his eyes with apparent effort. He speaks like a man half-asleep, repeating truths he knows without understanding. “Sanzo, Goku will –”

“ _Hakkai_.” He meets the man’s eyes, command firm and absolute in his own. “Stop.”

Hakkai lets out a shuddering breath and stares down at the boy in front of him with hard eyes. Slowly and stiffly, as if shifting position for the first time in years, he raises his hands and leans back. 

Sanzo closes his eyes, folds his hands together in prayer, and begins.

The first time he used the Maten sutra, he knocked himself out for three days. The sheer power of the sutras requires an incredible amount of discipline – not to use, but to rein in. Left to themselves, the sutras attempt to unfold themselves to the full extent of their powers, strong enough to reshape the world. Refocusing that power on a single youkai, or even a band of them, takes immense concentration. Sanzo’s adapted to the Maten sutra, has his control of it so precise now that he can use it to destroy only those youkai he chooses – not an unimportant consideration considering his travelling companions.

The Seiten sutra has different inclinations and desires, though, and the controls that hold perfectly with the Maten are next to meaningless here. As soon as he loosens its power he can feel its abilities pouring into his mind like the ocean trying to force its way backwards into a single stream.

In front of him, 15 of Goku’s ribs are broken, 8 of those shattered. In addition his lungs and intercostal muscles are shredded and he is suffering from significant blood loss and shock. Behind him, Hakkai has scar tissue in his eye socket and deadened nerve-endings there, as well as minor nerve damage in his stomach. Next to him, Gojyo has an improperly-healed radius and a damaged knee joint. In the room across the hall there’s an old man with catarrh, rheumatism and gallstones. Down the hall, a woman has a low fever and a deep cut on her arm. Downstairs, there’s someone with a broken leg and a concussion. In the city around him, there are broken bones and infections and cuts and colds and cancers and –

Sanzo’s eyes snap open and he pulls his hands apart, gasping for breath. Sweat is running down his back. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes again, and focuses more tightly. Focuses on Goku.

He chants the words under his breath while he forces the sutra into the duties he wants. It’s like wrestling a bull, fighting with all his strength and precision to force the sutra to do as he wishes, but when he reaches the end of the incarnation he’s woven the instructions he needs into its release. Gives the final command and feels it stream out to wrap around Goku, soft and gentle as a sunrise. The monkey’s eyes flicker, gold looking up at him for a moment before they slip shut again. Sanzo watches as the light withdraws, watches the rise and fall of the boy’s now unmarked chest. He’s breathing strong and even, colour already returning. 

The priest closes his eyes, and slumps forwards.

\-------------------------------------------------

Gojyo watches in shock as Sanzo chants at the bedside in an unusually harsh voice, shoulders shaking and sweat coursing down his temples. He’s never seen the priest use the sutra for anything other than blowing shit up, and restoring Goku’s shattered limiter. But then, he can tell simply from the aura that this isn’t the Maten sutra. This sutra glows a soft golden in contrast to the Maten’s deep destructive indigo, envelops Goku in its light. When it fades, there’s no sign of bruising, no blood on his lips and cheeks. Goku sighs and turns his head, snoring softly. Beside him Sanzo slumps forwards, head dropping like a stone. 

“Oi, Sanzo? Sanzo!” Gojyo grabs his shoulder and yanks him back, fingers pressed against his neck. The skin there is clammy and his pulse is quick and a bit thready, but it’s nothing too worrisome. Gojyo sighs and leans him down until his head is resting on the bed, his own heartbeat slowing. He turns to Hakkai; the green-eyed man is staring in strained surprise at the priest and his monkey. 

“What a pair of bastards,” says Gojyo, and steps over to help Hakkai to his feet. The healer gives a breathless laugh, eyes closed in a crinkling smile. When Gojyo pulls him up, he hangs heavy and uncoordinated against him, head lolling against the red-head’s shoulder. He falls limp halfway to the bed, finally passing out from sheer exhaustion. Gojyo catches his lanky form awkwardly and lifts him with a grunt to carry him the rest of the way; it’s not as though he doesn’t have experience hauling Hakkai around. He lays the healer down in the free bed and pulls the blankets around him gently, frowning in resignation for several seconds while watching Hakkai’s chest rise and fall in its slow rhythm. 

Eventually Gojyo straightens and looks back to Sanzo, slumped at Goku’s bedside in an ugly heap. He walks over to the shitty priest’s side and slowly reaches out towards the sutra, with the attitude of a man stealing honey from a bear. Sanzo’s deeply unconscious, but Gojyo still plucks the scroll off with the utmost care. Even then, the priest shifts slightly as his charge is removed, causing Gojyo to trip backwards and slam into the wall, cursing under his breath. 

Gojyo doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but as he strides out into the night to switch the damn sutras, he can at least take comfort in the fact that Sanzo’s gonna have a hell of a crick in his neck when he wakes up.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Dokugaku shifts impatiently beside Kou, waiting in the predawn light for Genjyo Sanzo to complete his half of their bargain. If he doesn’t, Gyokumen Koushu will have their guts for lunch. Of course, even if he does, if she finds out she still will. It doesn’t bother him much for himself, but she can hurt Kou much deeper, so much deeper. 

He’s so tightly strung that he jumps to his feet as soon as he senses someone coming, before realising that it’s a youkai’s ki that’s approaching. One of the local idiots, probably. He leans back against a tree and watches the long-legged figure approach through the dark. It’s only when he’s within 20 yards that Dokugaku recognizes his half-brother. He summons his sword and steps out to meet him, Kou standing behind him, calm and composed as a wall of ice.

“Gojyo? The hell’re you doing here?”

Gojyo stops, panting, and glares suspiciously at them. “I could ask you the same thing. What’ve you been doing with Sanzo?” It’s mostly curiosity, but there’s a tinge of anger there. The kid never did grow out of protective streak.

Kou steps forward, stern and cold. “That’s between him and us. Where is he?”

“Back in town. He sent me. Said,” Gojyo pauses, glances down at his hand and then back again, more cautiously. “Said to give you something.”

“The sutra,” breaks in Dokugaku. Gojyo shoots him a glance, the grudging: _we may be on different sides and I’m willing to beat the crap out of you, but I still trust you_ glance.

“Right.” He pulls it out from inside his jacket, ancient paper crinkling softly in the quiet. “Where’s yours?”

Kou produces it, holding it carefully in his left hand. “And Goku?”

“He’s fine. What the hell’s going on?”

“You have a head; use it.” 

Gojyo frowns. “You sound like the damn priest,” he mutters. But after a moment he steps forward and offers the sutra tentatively, other hand held stiff to either receive the exchange or summon his weapon; Dokugaku tenses. Kou imitates the gesture, and they switch possessions and back off with all the terse formality of the heads of two warring states meeting in a truce.

Kou doesn’t turn, but tilts his head to catch Dokugaku’s eye. “We are leaving,” Kou informs him, and transports back to the waiting dragons.

“Oi, Dokugaku – how the hell’d you two end up out here?”

Dokugaku gives him a half-smile. “You already know, idiot.”

Gojyo glowers at him. “You’re an asshole. But that shitty priest’s a bigger one.”

Dokugaku shrugs, and disappears. The kid’s old enough to deal with his own problems. He’s got to get Kou back before Gyokumen Koushi goes on a rampage. Besides, imagining his kid brother trying to winkle the information out of the tight-lipped priest will cheer him up all week.

\-------------------------------------------------

Goku takes a deep breath as he wakes, and wonders why that seems strange. He feels great: strong, energetic and hungry. And then he smells the blood on the sheets, and his eyes snap open as he clutches convulsively at his chest. At the momentary memory of knives and scissors and broken glass and _pain_. 

Sanzo’s sitting beside the bed, blond head resting on the mattress. The first thing that Goku notices is that he has heavy shadows under his eyes. The second thing is that his shoulders are bare – the sutra is gone. He sits up so fast his head spins, about to reach out to wake Sanzo. And then remembers more. Remembers unfamiliar words in his ears, a chant with the same rhythm as the Maten sutra but different words. Remembers the feeling of warmth, like the soft caress of spring sunlight on his skin. Remembers Sanzo watching him, eyes narrow and sweat running down his face. Whatever’s happened, Sanzo did it deliberately. And Sanzo always knows best, in the end.

Goku slips out of the bed, kneels beside the priest, and shifts him gently until Sanzo’s lying in his arms. Lifts him into the bed in a quick gesture, and moves him over to the far side. Sanzo doesn’t stir, breathing low and even. His skin is cool, robes smelling of smoke and sweat. And under it, of Kougaiji. Goku’s brow wrinkles; they haven’t met the prince in weeks. Across the room Hakkai is sleeping silently, well tucked in under the covers. 

In the bed, Sanzo twitches. It’s a tiny movement, but Goku’s eyes flash to him all the same. He reaches out slowly and presses an uncertain hand against Sanzo’s cheek. The skin there is smooth and cool, not even warm never mind feverish. His blond hair is lying in long twisted strands, slicked down by acrid sweat. He’s cold now, in the unheated room. Cold, or maybe fretful. Missing the sutra on his shoulders, the symbol which defines his life, the inheritance his master died for and he’s risked his life for more times than Goku can count. The sutra he protects asleep, and unconscious, and bleeding to death. The sutra that Sanzo, at least, believes makes him Sanzo.

The sutra he’s given up, somehow, willingly – he would never be here if he hadn’t. And Goku can imagine nothing he would give that sutra for, no price he would ever surrender it for, no trade even beginning to approach its worth. It isn’t just Sanzo’s possession, it’s the one thing preventing Ni and Gyokumen Koushu from completing the revival that’s already thrown what seems to Goku to be the entire world into turmoil. It has to be worth more than anything he can imagine, because the price of losing it is _losing this war_. Thousands have already died across Tougenkyo; Goku doesn’t want to imagine how many will if Gyuumaou is revived.

But Goku is alive where before he knew in his bones he was dying, and while the sutra is gone, Sanzo is here with him. Goku’s not much good at math, but even he can solve this equation. Goku suddenly finds that he’s cold himself, although his heart seems to be burning, pumping itching heat through his veins. He grits his teeth and brings his focus back to Sanzo, who twitches again. 

Slowly, slow as a heron stalking through water, Goku lowers himself back into the bed. Curls up close to the priest until his chin is resting on Sanzo’s shoulder, and pulls the blankets up over them. He is close enough that he can feel Sanzo’s heartbeat, close enough that Sanzo can feel his warmth.

When Gojyo comes back, when Hakkai wakes, he’ll roll out of the bed then. For now, he closes his eyes and tells himself that Sanzo made his decision because it was logically the right one, as he always does. Tells himself that it must have been right, because in the end Sanzo is always right. 

He can’t help but wonder why, when he doesn’t believe a word of it, he still feels a twinge of warmth in his chest.


End file.
